Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue Two
Last TreeI remember ecstasies of rain,
and ravens huddled on my shoulders.
It was not so long ago — tomorrow
sprouted from my lowest branch.
Sky still turns around me,
bringing in and bringing out
the great golden mother.
Now I have so little hunger
for her milk. I grow thin and weary.
Soon the wind will play me
like a broken flute.